


don't make it easy (i want you to mean it)

by kadaransmuggler



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Peace Offerings, but they happen anyway, nathaniel doesn't want to deal with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 02:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14864810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kadaransmuggler/pseuds/kadaransmuggler
Summary: Some things are worth the trouble.Nathaniel Howe is one of them.





	don't make it easy (i want you to mean it)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fearnotthedemons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearnotthedemons/gifts).



                The archdemon is dead at her feet. Vairë blinks blood out of her eyes and uncurls her fingers from the hilt of her sword. It clatters to the worn stone of Fort Drakon, and for a moment the overwhelming relief she feels almost brings her to her knees. The disbelief sets in shortly after. It almost doesn’t feel real, to have the thing she’d devoted so much of herself to finished. She almost doesn’t know what to do with herself, now that her life isn’t dictated by the pressing need to save the world.

                She settles in to work for the king. There is much good she can do working under Alistair, and he is all too willing to listen to her. For a time, Vairë settles into a rhythm.

* * *

                She has barely had time to get comfortable in her new role before the letter arrives. Amaranthine has need of the Warden Commander, and Vairë must go.  She begins packing with a wry smile on her face. _No rest for the wicked,_ she thinks, but perhaps Amaranthine will not be so bad.

* * *

                The Keep had been overrun with darkspawn when she arrived. She cut them down with grim efficiency like she always did, every swing of her twin blades another ‘spawn cut down for Tamlen. She finds his death still stings, even after the end of the Blight.

                After the Keep has been retaken, Vairë isn’t given the time to catch her breath. There is a man in the cells, they tell her, and she realizes that she is back to a never-ending stream of crises that need her attention.

                When she arrives, still in her armor, she finds Nathaniel Howe sitting on the floor of the cell. Shit. _Of course this wouldn’t be easy_ , she thinks, _because nothing ever is._ It’s been a long time since she’s seen a man as angry as Howe is now, but she can’t say she blames him either.

                She takes a good long look at the man in the jail cell, at the angry furrow of his brow, at the desperation stretched across his face. Nathaniel Howe is not his father, she decides.

                She extends the olive branch.

                He becomes a Warden.

* * *

                Vairë doesn’t bank on Nathaniel’s survival. She knows better than that from her own Joining- Daveth’s death is not easy to get out of her head. But with the rest of the Keep telling her she made a horrible decision, she finds herself hoping her survives out of spite. Besides, she’s sure he’ll make a good recruit. A good Warden.

                It is a relief, then, when he merely falls to the floor like she had. She catches him before he can hit his head, and waves the others out of the room with a triumphant smile.

                It is hours before Nathaniel awakes, and when he does, it is not quietly. He groans, sitting up so fast Vairë knows it’s made his head spin. He looks like he might be sick. She watches with a wry smile on her face, remembering how her own Joining had made her feel.

                “I told them you’d survive,” she says, barely contained laughter in her voice, and his head snaps around as he levels her with a glare.

“What do you care?” he asks, and pushes himself to his feet. He is gone before she can answer. She closes her eyes and lets out a deep breath. She hadn’t expected easy, but she hadn’t expected this, either.

* * *

                Vairë finds the bow in the basement. She knows it won’t erase Nathaniel’s feelings, knows it won’t make up for the grief he feels over the death of his father, but she thinks it might be a start.

                He is reverent when he touches the bow. It is something tangible, something real that he can hold in his hands, something that remains of the Howe’s family legacy.

                “I know it won’t replace your father. But I thought you might like it,” she says, her voice quiet, like she might set off a bomb with the wrong word spoken in the wrong tone.

                “It doesn’t make up for it. But thank you,” Nathaniel murmurs, his finger tracing the crest stamped into the wood.

                It is the nicest thing he has ever said to her.

* * *

                It is raining, because of course it is. They are on the road, in mud up to their ankles, and Vairë has never been more displeased.

                “Vairë?” Nathaniel asks. He has fallen behind, and she does not bother looking over her shoulder to answer him.

                “Yes?” she replies, a little irritated. He has probably caught her attention so he can say something rude. He seems to like being rude.

                “Why do you swear so much?” he asks. The question startles her so much that she begins to laugh.

                “Why don’t you?” she returns, and she is still laughing even as he begins to grumble under his breath.

* * *

                Being on the road again after so long is like falling into an old habit. When she is not cooking, or sitting watch, at night she sits on her bedroll near the campfire and watches her new companions. Oghren has already fallen asleep, mumbling something under his breath as he ducked into his tent. Nathaniel and Anders stand on opposite sides of the fire, arguing. It takes her a few moments to realize they are arguing about cooking, of all things. During the Blight, she had chucked whatever she could into the pot and devoured it anyway. She was a Warden, and she was always so hungry, and food was food.

                Anders is of the same mind as she is. Dump whatever they can in the pot, let it get hot, and pack it up with them when they leave.

                Nathaniel disagrees. If they are going to eat food cooked on the trail, they should try to make it taste as close to decent as they can get it, and they should not make more than they can consume.

                It is an argument she sits out of, but it is one that gives her a good chance to study her companions. They are both too stubborn for their own good, she thinks, and they both wear their own masks. Nathaniel uses his grouchy disposition as a mask, and she can see how it works, too. It is hard to get past the prickles to crack it.

                It is something Vairë is no stranger to.  She has a mask of her own. Most people do, she has found, and none of them are any exceptions.

                But here, in this moment, Nathaniel doesn’t seem so prickly. He is stubborn, yes, determined that they do this his way. But there is barely concealed amusement, there, too, and where he would have hurled insults before he jokes now.

                She wonders if he knows how far he has come.

* * *

                It would seem there is a never-ending supply of darkspawn. Nathaniel hates them, and hates himself for agreeing to a life fighting the foul things. But his hatred pales in comparison’s to Vairë’s.

                “Why do you hate them so much?” he asks. He does not expect an answer, or at least, not a real one. It would be easy for her to brush them off. It’s what he would do.

                “They…they killed someone important to me. Or they might as well have,” she says, after a long moment of silence. For a moment, her face changes, and grief is written across her features. It is something else that goes against the monster he made in his head. The monster in his head cares for no one save herself. The monster in his head is bloodthirsty, and angry, and may as well be ten feet tall with lightning bolts shooting from her eyes. Vairë is none of these things. Vairë is a girl, forced into a role she didn’t want, with a lifetime of war under her belt from one Blight. It is a disquieting realization.

                “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth,” he tells her. It should not be worth anything. He doesn’t think it will be. He has been nothing but antagonistic towards her, and he thinks sometimes that she shouldn’t have ever let him join the Wardens.

                She finds that his fumbling attempt at comfort is endearing. She thinks she likes the place she and Nathaniel are working towards, as the ground steadies beneath their feet.  

* * *

                Vairë is alone in her study when Nathaniel approaches her. There is a pile of letters in front of her, a quill and ink sitting on the edge of the desk, and she is absolutely miserable when she thinks about replying to them all. Most of them barely deserve a reply- nobles, currying for favor that they don’t deserve, or complaints about the way she’s doing things. It is exhausting, and she has barely started. She looks up when Nathaniel opens the door, hand twitching towards the dagger in her boot until she sees who it is.

                “Something you need?” she asks, putting the letter in her hand down and rubbing her eyes until spots dance across her vision.

                “When are we going to Amaranthine?” he asks. He says nothing else, stays hovering inside the doorway. He looks unsure, like maybe he hadn’t really meant to come find her.

                “Tomorrow. There are a few little things I’d like to do. Everyone’s welcome to come along,” she says.

                “Don’t leave without me,” he says, and he is gone without another word. He does not tell her why he wishes to go to Amaranthine. She doesn’t expect him to, but his manner was a little unnerving. She wonders what was so important about Amaranthine as she stares after him. She does not go back to the letters.

* * *

                Delilah looks at him with her mouth twisted into a sympathetic smile. “He wasn’t the man you thought he was,” she tells him, and there is a world of sadness in her face.

                “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nathaniel answers, a sinking feeling in his stomach, but he’s lying. He knows his father wasn’t the best might, might not have even been a good man, but he was his father. There should be someone that mourns him, someone who remembers.

                He lets his gaze drift from the face of his sister to the window overlooking the street. Amaranthine. He thinks of Vairë, with the twisting lines covering her face.

                She is not the monster he made in his head.

                She is strong, and she is proud. She’s the hero everyone says she is.

                It is hard, sometimes, to remember that she is the one who killed his father. The anger burns in the pit of his stomach, but he finds that he is so, so tired.

                “I think you do,” Delilah says, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder.

                He thinks it might be time to start building bridges of his own.

* * *

                When Nathaniel steps out of his sister’s house, the first person he sees is Oghren in the market. There’s an idea forming in the back of his mind, a peace offering tied up with an apology. He’s been an ass to Vairë, and it’s too hard to deny anymore.

                “Hey! Dwarf!” he calls out, before he can stop himself. Oghren turns to face him, and Nathaniel thinks that this is a mistake. Oghren will figure out what he’s up to, and Oghren will laugh him out of Amaranthine.

                “Yeah? Whaddya want?” Oghren asks, crossing his arms over his chest and doing his best to look bored. There’s a glint in his eyes, though, that speaks of mischief and jokes and too much ale.

                “You traveled with the Warden Commander during the Blight, didn’t you? Do you have any embarrassing stories about her?” he asks, lowering his tone conspiratorially. _There’s no way the dwarf won’t catch on_ , he thinks.

                “There was this one time, in in the forest, or maybe near the lake? Cleanbad? Anyway, the Qunari had brought along these little pastries. Dunno what they were, but we made camp like normal. Vairë took first watch. Come morning, Sten was grouchier than normal. Wake up to a noise, go out to figure out what it was. Turns out the little Warden had gotten hungry and pilfered through the supplies and ate the pastries. Every single one of ‘em. The Qunari weren’t too happy about that. She even had the icing all over her face,” he says, brash laughter ringing out and drawing looks at them.

                So, the Warden Commander was a pastry thief. Nathaniel almost smiles. He could use that.

                Oghren wanders off before Nathaniel can reply, eye caught by a tavern.

* * *

                He waits until they are alone in the Keep. It is late at night, and Vairë must not be able to sleep because he finds her wandering the halls. He doesn’t ask, and she doesn’t tell him.

                “I have something I think you’ll like,” he says. She looks skeptical, one eyebrow raised, mouth twisted into a half-frown.

                “Couldn’t be any worse than half the shit I’ve had to deal with before,” she says, after a moment. He fakes a look of hurt as he pulls a wrapped package out from behind his back.

                “Someone…gave them to me in Amaranthine. I thought you’d appreciate them,” he says, offering the package. She stares at it critically for a moment before she accepts it, cautiously pulling the fabric back to reveal half a dozen pastries. They’re slightly squished, and the icing has rubbed off onto the fabric they had been carried in.

                She stuffs one into her mouth before she can stop to think about how it might look. It has raspberry filling in the center, and it is delightfully sweet. It makes her think of Sten, of nights spent sitting by the campfire with people who made her laugh. She wonders how Nathaniel knew she liked them. She hasn’t had any since she arrived in Amaranthine, never mentioned pastries or any other sweet things either. The cooks in the Keep were too busy keeping with the Grey Warden appetites to worry about dessert.

                “Thank you,” she says, around the pastry in her mouth. She closes her eyes to savor the flavor. It has been far too long.

                “It was nothing. I didn’t even pay for them,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. Vairë decides not to tell him that he’s a horrible liar.  

* * *

                They take watch in shifts, when they are on the road. Sometimes, Nathaniel has trouble sleeping. He usually takes second watch, and Vairë usually takes the first. It is on a night like this when they sit in silence next to the campfire. The firelight casts her face in flickering shadows.

                “Those markings on your face. What are they?” Nathaniel asks, curiosity making the words slip out before he can stop them. She seems surprised at the question.

                “They’re called vallaslin. We Dalish get them when we come of age,” she answers, poking the fire with a stick. Embers flare in the darkness, illuminating her. The markings on her face don’t look purple in the darkness. They look black, and it is enough to make him think of the Blight and the Taint coursing through their veins.

                “Oh,” he says, quietly. He wants to know more, but he doesn’t know if his questions would be welcomed. Doesn’t know much about the Dalish, knows even less about Vairë.

                “I got them when I was sixteen. I was always one of the best hunters in my clan. This hunt wasn’t supposed to be anything special, but it was harder than we expected. Seems like that’s how everyfuckingthing is, in this world. But we came back fine, and I had proved my skill, so the Keeper told me it was time,” she says, after a few seconds have ticked by. Tamlen had wanted to watch. It is easy to remember his face, bright and inquisitive. It makes her heart ache.

                “What do they mean?” he asks. There is no harm in trying to get to know her. He is beginning to discover that she is more woman than she is legend.

                “All vallaslin honors one of our gods. Mine is for Andruil. She’s the goddess of the hunt. It only made sense,” she tells him. She had liked hunting, and she was good at it. Even now, she thinks she would be better than most of the people she knows. Tamlen had joked that she had been born with a bow in her hand and daggers on her hips.

                “You must miss your clan,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. It feels like there is some spell over the tiny campsite, something that makes old hurts less painful, something that softens anger. Or maybe they’re just getting older as time passes, and old hurts get even older, and anger becomes tiring.

                “I do,” she says, evenly, and she pokes the fire again. They lapse into silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

* * *

                Sometimes, Nathaniel cannot bear to look at Vairë when they sit around the campfire. They do a lot of that. More than he might have expected, but they are Wardens and Vairë has a never-ending stream of crises to attend to and fires to put out, which leads to more traveling than he had thought possible. When they sit at the campfire, trading banter and stories and gossip, the firelight flickering across her face, it makes her look young. It makes her look soft, peels back the layers of trauma the Blight left entrenched on her.

                It is a stark reminder of how wrong he was. He is not his father, but he’s beginning to realize he doesn’t even know what that would entail. The realization that he didn’t really know his father after all has left him feeling hollow and gutted, like a vital piece of the puzzle has been destroyed and now it can never be completed. He isn’t his father’s son, but he doesn’t know where to go from there.

                And Vairë isn’t the monster he wanted her to be. She is not a thing that he can hate so easily, even with his father’s blood on her hands. He thinks he should still hate her. Someone should mourn his father, hold his murderer accountable for the life she had taken.  

                He isn’t his father, but she isn’t a monster, and it is getting so hard to hate.

* * *

                They are in the Wending Woods when he finds it at the base of a tree. He had been scouting ahead while the others set up camp, looking for anything they might need to know about. Instead of danger, he finds a carved halla. It is a tiny thing, something that might make an amulet. It is old, too, worn down by the elements, and half buried in the dirt. He slips it into his pocket. He thinks it may be time for a peace offering he’s ready to admit.

                Nathaniel doesn’t give it to Vaire straight away. He keeps it in his pocket for days, until they are back at Vigil’s Keep. He doesn’t want anyone else to see, doesn’t want anyone else to share this secret thing. He waits until she’s alone in her study, and he enters without knocking.

                Vairë looks tired. He supposes they all do, after days spent on the road. They have hardly been back a few hours, and her hair is still wet from the bath.

                “Is there something you need? If it’s not an emergency, I’d really appreciate it if it could wait,” she says. She sounds worse than she looks, like she needs to crawl in bed and sleep for a week straight.

                “I have something for you. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know anything about the Dalish, but even I know about the halla. I found this while we were in the Wending Wood. I thought you might like it. I thought you could carry a piece of home with you,” he says, pulling the figure out of his pocket. It is wonder that it has not been broken after all those days on the road, but it looks just as good as when he’d found it. Better, even, because he’d spent hours scrubbing the dirt off.

                Vairë swallows the lump in her throat as he holds his hand out. She reaches out, her hand shaking just a little, and curls her fingers around the halla. It is made of ironbark, probably a scrap left over from something important.

                “Thank you,” she whispers, after a long moment of staring at it. It is only then that Nathaniel realizes he had not moved his hand. He had been too preoccupied with her reaction. He lets it fall back to his side, sheepishly.

                “I know it’s not much. But I thought of you when I found it, and I’ve been an ass, so I thought…maybe it would work as a peace offering,” he says. She smiles up at him.

                “It’s perfect,” she tells him, curling her fist around it. She cradles it against her chest long after he leaves. Later, she will cut strips of leather to wrap around it, and she will wear it around her neck.

* * *

                Nathaniel visits Delilah again a few days later. He knows that as a Warden, chances to see her will become few and far between, and he wants to take them while he can. Delilah, for her part, is happy to feed him and tell him about the newest details of her life.

                Of course Delilah is the first one to pick up on it.

                “So, big brother, tell me how the Warden Commander is doing,” she says, sitting across from him at the dinner table. Her belly has started to round out, and Nathaniel wonders how much longer it will be before there’s another Howe in the world. Maybe this one will have it better.

                “She’s fine, I suppose. Seems to be settling into her role in Amaranthine,” he says, drumming his fingers on the table, and he can feel his face heating up. He doesn’t like to think of Vairë, even now with the truce that sits between them. Something about her makes his stomach twists on itself, makes his heart beat a little faster. He thinks he preferred the boiling rage. At least he had gotten used to that.

                “How could she be anything else, with you around,” Delilah says. He looks up at her sharply, and notices the twinkle in her eyes.

                “What in the Void are you talking about?” he snaps. He’ll regret it later.

                “Oh, come now, brother. You might be able to fool everyone else, but I’m your sister. You like her, even if you’ve got your head too far up your own ass to realize it,” she says. He huffs out a sigh, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

                “Of course I like her. She’s not the monster I thought she was, and she’s a good Commander,” he answers. There’s a defensive edge to his voice that makes Delilah’s smile widen.

                “That’s not what I meant, you fool, and you know,” she says. He looks at her with an almost stricken expression, and when he flees her house moments later, the sound of her laughter follows him onto the street.

* * *

                Sometimes, Vairë has trouble sleeping. She remembers Tamlen, his hand reaching towards the mirror. She remembers a knife, fingers curled bloody around the blade, and she remembers a pyre. She remembers a grave with no body, and a body with no grave.

                It is enough to have her pacing through the halls of the Keep like a caged animal.

                It is on a night like this that Nathaniel finds her. He couldn’t sleep, either, remembers a desire demon in the Fade wearing his father’s face and promising to give him his life back. It leaves him unsettled, nerves fraying at the edges.

                He almost doesn’t see Vairë at first, and jumps when he nearly runs into her. She looks up at him, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, and she must see the confusion on his face.

                “I hate this whole fucking mess sometimes,” she says, but her voice lacks any real venom.

                “You can say that again,” he says, a ghost of a smile on his face and a hint of laughter in his voice.

                “Want to raid the larder?” she asks, suddenly. She feels the need to do something impulsive. She curls her fingers around his wrists and tugs him in the direction of the kitchens without waiting for an answer.

                “Hungry?” he asks, and there’s still a tinge of amusement. He wonders how many people have seen the Warden Commander after this.

                “Always,” she says, but she’s laughing a little, too.

* * *

                They find their way to the roof, stolen mead and cheese and bread wrapped clutched in their hands. She sits closer to him than he’d expected, and their shoulders are brushing together, her thigh resting against his. He finds himself focusing on those points of contact, even as his eyes find the horizon. A storm is brewing, dark clouds building.

                He almost jumps when she rests her head on his shoulder.

                “You know, there are a lot of things I’d like to go back and redo,” she says, brushing her hands off over the edge of the roof, “but not you. You’re a good Warden, Nathaniel, and you’re a good friend too. When you aren’t actively antagonizing me,” she says. She laughs, then, and it is enough to make him feel like the world is a little less awful.

                He turns to look at her, but any words he has to say lay slaughtered in his throat when he sees her face.

                She has never looked so beautiful.

                He has never been so glad that he was wrong.

                He doesn’t know who moves first, but lightning crackles across the sky, thunder booming as the heavens open and rain begins to fall, and then they are kissing in a surge of movement, her fingers tangled into the collar of his shirt as she pulls herself onto his lap.

                It is a kiss that leaves them breathless.

                “We should go in,” he says, and then he is kissing her again, her fingers tangling in his hair as she presses closer.

                “Probably,” she agrees, when they pull back.

                They do not go in until the storm has stopped.

* * *

                Vairë looks at the Architect and realizes that she cannot let him go. She thinks of Tamlen, and of everything that has happened since. She thinks of the taint in her own veins, thinks of the death sentence she had been given. Her hand curls involuntarily around the halla at her throat.

                The Architect dies quickly.

                She wonders if she doomed the world to more Blights. She wonders if she made a mistake because of something she couldn’t let go.

                She moves on before she can let herself begin to dwell on it.

* * *

                Vairë sits alone, staring into the campfire. It is a relief that it is over, she supposes, but the guilt lingers.

                She jumps when she feels a hand on her shoulder, but it’s only Nathaniel. She leans back against him, closing her eyes.

                “You did the right thing,” he tells her, his voice a deep rumble in her ear.

                She blinks her eyes open and looks up at him. The expression on his face is impossibly soft and gentle. They have come a very long way from the first time she saw him sitting in the jail cells.

                “I know,” she says, the ghost of a smile on her face. She is not talking about the Architect any longer.

                Vairë has seen plenty of things since she left her clan. Rarely anything will be easy, and most of it will be trouble. She reaches up, linking her fingers with Nathaniel’s as he presses a kiss to the top of her head. She thinks some things are worth the trouble. And this more than anything.

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first of three fics for my fic giveaway, and it was a blast to do. Vairë is such an interesting Warden and I loved exploring her relationship with Nathaniel. I already loved Nate, and this just made me love him more. I hope you like the gift, and that it lives up to your expectations and does Vairë justice!  
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. If you did, feel free to leave a comment down below- I do my best to respond to every comment I get, and even if I don't, know that I still definitely appreciate them.


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